


the sinners (and the saints buried within)

by icarusdusk



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Hurt Peter Parker, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Sad, Suicidal Thoughts, The Raft Prison (Marvel), Whump, little bit of torture?? not too descriptive, no beta reader we die like men, only explicit rating to be safe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:29:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24034327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarusdusk/pseuds/icarusdusk
Summary: Peter ran forward, to the glass walls that separated him from the outside, those which were keeping him trapped and contained and hidden away from the world. He began to hammer on the glass with his fists. Punch after punch after punch. But his efforts were rewarded with nothing but the blood that dripped from his beaten hands.The super-strength that he so often relied upon had failed him. It had been torn away by whatever drugs they were pumping into his cell; just as everything else had been.Peter collapsed to his knees against the glass, tears pouring down his face.He knew the others were watching. Knew they had woken up with all the noise he was making. The Avengers, his heroes, were observing his clusterfuck of a breakdown. But he couldn’t care less. His life as he had known it was gone, and here he was, cloistered away from the world.Maybe Ross was right: perhaps he did deserve this. For being a mutant, a monster.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Peter Parker, Clint Barton & Scott Lang & Wanda Maximoff & Peter Parker & Sam Wilson, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds, Michelle Jones & Peter Parker, Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Sam Wilson, Peter Parker & Thaddeus Ross, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Scott Lang & Peter Parker, Wanda Maximoff & Peter Parker
Comments: 36
Kudos: 223





	1. greed

**Author's Note:**

> hello hi so i had to shift the timeline a lil for this to work !!!! i hope i didn’t make it too confusing?? but to clarify: basically peter gets captured about a day after the rogue avengers, so he’s there when tony visits to grill them for info on steve + bucky.  
> also,,,,, this was meant to be a short, speculative one shot about what would happen if peter + tony were on the raft at the same time. now its a multi-chaptered, multi-pov fiction dealing with a shit storm of emotions. also each chapter is based off one of the seven deadly sins and virtues. hope you enjoy :)  
> all the definitions used belong to merriam webster  
> (a last psa: there is a lot of strong language in this fic. like i mean a lot oops)

_Greed: “a selfish and excessive desire for more of something than is needed”._

* * *

_Something about Captain America going crazy._

That’s all Germany was meant to be for Peter. To act as a buffer for Mister Stark, to distract everyone from their concerns and worries about the Avengers being torn apart from the inside. Nothing more, nothing less.

But as Peter walked upstairs from Happy’s car, where _Mister Stark_ himself had dropped him home from the airport, he realised that maybe he should have asked more questions. Something huge had to have been the cause of much tension amongst the superheroes. Sure, he’d heard of the Sokovia Accords- who _hadn’t_? And yet. And yet, something just didn’t sit right. A group of renowned genetically and technologically enhanced people don’t just go traipsing across continents for no reason.

Especially without consequences.

As Peter pulled his house key from his pocket and opened the door to his apartment, everything felt wrong. He tried to steady his breathing, taking long deep breaths. But the feeling wouldn’t go away. His fear became something tangible, creeping over him like a hungry beast. _It’s nothing_ , he chided himself, _just leftover adrenaline from fighting with the Avengers_.

He couldn’t even convince himself.

Readjusting the web-shooters on his wrists, Peter took the first, small step into the apartment. The first thing he noticed was the dark. Other than a small lamp in the living area, the lights were off, the blinds down. Normally, the apartment should have been flooded with the midday sun. His chest fluttered. The second thing he noticed was the uncanny amount of heartbeats sounding from within. Five or so, pumping rhythmically. And one heartbeat, palpitating faster and faster, its uneven pace resounding heavily in Peter’s ears.

_Aunt May._

Peter dropped his bags at the door and sprinted the rest of the way into his childhood home. The sight that greeted him in his living room was enough to draw a pained gasp from his mouth. May, his sweet-natured, loving aunt, stood flush against a member of the military, the latter of whom was holding a gun to her head. Three other soldiers surrounded a somewhat familiar and older man with greying hair and moustache.

His eyes flashed around once more, taking stock. Just the four soldiers and whoever the official-looking man was. Peter could take that many people down in his sleep. The issue would be getting the gun away from May without them firing it- possible but tricky. But he didn’t think he could risk it. Not with her life at stake.

“Peter?” his aunt questioned; her voice so chock full of the emotions that were currently pervading every fibre of his own being. Confusion. Shock. Befuddlement. A very deep, unsettling shade of fear. The man holding May only shoved the gun harder into her head, eliciting a groan of pain.

“Hey!” Peter yelled, taking a step closer to his aunt. How _dare_ he manhandle her like that? “Don’t hurt her. She’s done nothing wrong.”

The professional-looking man, who Peter realised in his stressed state looked like Colonel Sanders, walked forward. From the boots on his feet to the tailored suit, it was very obvious that he was a person who flashed his authority around- as much as the heavily accrued wealth he must have had.

“Correct,” Colonel-Sanders-looking-man said. “ _She’s_ done nothing wrong. But the same can’t be said about you, can it, Mr Parker? Or do you prefer to be called Spider-man?”

“You’re- Peter _what?_ ”

His heart skipped a beat. Peter couldn’t look May in the face.

His voice, usually so bubbly and full of energy, was breathless. “What do you-”

“I know for a fact that you’re intelligent- you go to Midtown on a scholarship, correct? - so don’t even attempt to play dumb with me.”

It was in that moment Peter understood that he was truly and utterly fucked. This man most likely knew _everything_. He began pulling at any sort of strings he could find. Maybe- just maybe- he could still get May out of this. Web the gun to stop it from firing at her head, knock out the soldiers, shield her with his own body as they crashed out the window and escaped over Queen’s skyline. The risk, though, could be too much. He couldn’t have May die- not another person. Not again.

The man must have seen something in Peter’s face to realise the instant the younger boy would face whatever the hell was about to happen. Consequences for himself be damned; Peter wasn’t going to let anyone hurt his Aunt May.

“I’m Thaddeus Ross,” the man said.

So _that’s_ where Peter recognised him from. “You’re the Secretary of State. Mister Stark’s mentioned you.”

“Tony, Tony, Tony. He’s a right pain in my ass. The only good he ever did was helping to capture some of Rogers’ rogue Avengers.” Ross sighed, running his hands over his face. “And even that he failed at. Captain America and his lucky boy Barnes have run off the radar.”

“What’s that go to do with me?”

Ross smirked. “It’s got everything to do with you. The Sokovia Accords require any and all enhanced individuals, whether they be superheroes or vigilantes, to register themselves.”

Peter’s face went white, dread pooling in his stomach. No one had elected to mention that _he_ would be required to sign the Accords. He was a minor, contracts weren’t legally binding. Or at least that’s what he remembered learning in government class a lifetime ago.

“No- I. What?”

“Not so witty, are we now?”

“Don’t do what he says, Peter,” May whispered. And though he could see confusion still lining her face, there was determination brimming within her eyes. With a muffled _“Quiet!”_ , the soldier that held her against him shifted, whacking her on the head with the butt of his gun. And then it was though her legs completely collapsed beneath her. Peter watched, full of terror and shock and dread, as May fell to the ground like a thousand bricks.

“Don’t- how _dare_ you touch her!” Peter flung his wrist out to the guard, web-shooters at the ready. Though he knew he’d just completely outed his identity- it had been worth it. Maybe. The other three soldiers all trained their assault rifles on him. Peter knew they wouldn’t be afraid to shoot, at him or at May, the consequences- whatever they were- be damned. And though he itched to deck the soldier for even going near his aunt, let alone hurting her, some small part of him held back.

His senses were dialled to eleven, the entirety of his body trembling. All he wanted was to fight. To fight and save May and then run, run, _run_. Away from Ross and the bumbling soldiers and anyone who dared threaten him or his family. He could do it. Maybe. Possibly.

“I wouldn’t do what you’re thinking, Peter. Give me any more reason and then we’ll see what happens to your aunt when you don’t comply.” Peter didn’t move as Ross stared down at him, his body paralysed in fear. The two stared at each other, both refusing to give in. And then Ross inclined his head towards May, who lay on the floor, quietly, silently, noiselessly, holding her head. Peter lowered his web-shooters.

“Don’t hurt her. Please.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Ross took a few steps forward, enough that he was standing right in front of Peter. The young boy had no clue of anything that was happening. He just knew, innately, that nothing could happen to May.

Ross took Peter’s face in his hand, scrutinising every detail. His attention then moved to the web-shooters at his wrist. With a sharp movement, Ross yanked the bands, then watched as the now broken pieces fell to the ground below. Peter’s heart froze, his skin turning icy. His web-shooters- _gone_. His pride and joy, the very thing that allowed him to swing through the streets of Queens were shattered. Destroyed. Ruined. Fragmented.

Just as he was slowly becoming.

He had never felt this way before; so full and empty at the same time. His body was slowly becoming numb. The realisation that something was very, very wrong permeated every essence of his being.

It was as though he, himself, was falling. Not softly like a snowflake but instead with all the power of a tsunami.

Having finished his examination, Ross stood straight. “Peter Parker, also known as the vigilante Spider-Man, you are under arrest for violating the Sokovia Accords as sanctioned by the United Nations.”

Arrest? Peter blanked hardcore.

And that feeling of a tsunami increased tenfold. Each beat of his heart felt weightless, breathless. The fear inside of him was crippling, all-encompassing and so very like a beast lashing its tail.

“Mister Stark never mentioned-”

“I’m not surprised he didn’t,” Ross said; that ineffable, shit-eating smirk still on his face. “Tony does things that serve his own purpose without thinking of others. Like expediting a passport for a fifteen-year-old so he can go fight Captain America on foreign soil. Very impressive performance, by the way. Not just anyone can have a gangway dropped on them and survive to tell the tale.”

Peter stayed silent. He had nothing to say; no witty comebacks, no retorts or sarcastic quips. It was the most human and frail he held felt since- since kneeling over Ben, his uncle’s bright, red blood staining his pale hands. He was stuck between a rock and a very, _very_ hard place.

“Effective immediately, you will be transferred to the Raft prison, where you will stay indefinitely.”

 _“No!”_ Even Ross flinched at the force in which May yelled that one word. And though she was still on the ground, crimson red blood dripping down her face, it did nothing to shift the strength of her voice. “You can’t take him away. You _can’t_. He’s a _child_.”

Peter longed to run to her and shield her within his arms; protecting her with everything he had. But there was no knowing what Ross would do and Peter just couldn’t let her get hurt. He would sacrifice himself a thousand times over if it meant she was safe from harm.

Instead, he dropped his gaze to the ground, staring tiredly at the remains of his beloved web-shooters. May, bless her soul, must have read his face and seen what was in it; she had always said he was an open book.

“No, Peter. No. No. _No_.”

“I’ll go with you,” he whispered. And though he wished to open the floodgates on his emotions, to scream and shout and make the world know of his pain, he didn’t. To wherever the Raft was, to whatever hell lay before him, he would at least go with his dignity. He had absolutely no idea what he was getting himself into. But for his aunt- he would do anything. “Just- just leave May out of it. Don’t hurt her.”

_“Peter!”_

“If you manage to cooperate your aunt will not be harmed,” Ross said. “Unlike you, she has done nothing wrong. But if any funny business were to happen, ever or at all, we know where she lives.”

With another tilt of Ross’ head, one of the other soldiers, a younger-looking woman, walked forward with a pair of handcuffs. Peter turned around and placed his hands behind his back. He knew, realistically, that he could’ve fought them off. And won. But his inner child, the part of him that was filled with living fear and anxiety, was too concerned about what losing that fight would mean. Not just for him- but for May.

The lady wrapped the cuffs tightly around Peter’s wrists, the metal cold and harsh compared to the comforting weight of his web-shooters. The dread that pooled within his stomach did not dissipate; if anything, that terror grew in size until his entire body was paralysed with it.

Ross walked back over, standing close enough to whisper in Peter’s ear. “You’re a mutant, Parker. A monstrosity. And monsters always get what’s coming to them.”

***

Peter thought they would drug him, send him unconscious. But instead, they kept him prone and awake, as if it to leave him be held captive by his fear. And if that was the case: it was working.

He was walked, almost to the point of being dragged, by those nameless soldiers out of the apartment. May was still screaming- and Peter tried to block it out. This was it: the now, the is, the was. There wasn’t any hope of escaping this future. Especially without hurting her. Never again would he allow another family member to get hurt because of him- not like his parents or Ben. Never again.

So, he let them take him from his home and to whatever waited beyond. And that tang of acid- that inescapable despair- still coated his tongue.

A black car waited out the front of the apartment block. A crowd had gathered, watching, waiting, to see what happened. He refused to look at anyone; instead, withering under their gazes. The soldiers shoved him through, past the onlookers, and into the vehicle. He only had to sit for a few moments before Ross, too, entered the car.

From the car, it was a jet; sleek, smooth and nondescript. He hadn’t uttered a word since defending May in the apartment.

Didn’t know if words were even possible anymore.

Taking off his handcuffs momentarily, they shuffled him into a small room, barren and empty, with a pair of blue prison clothes. His throat tightened. This was really happening. He was going to _prison_. Indefinitely. And without proper reason. He didn’t think he would last very long; his blood crooned to see open-air and twinkling stars and the bright green of the parks in his neighbourhood. Not… not metal and steel and thick, iron bars.

A fist banged on the door. Peter hurriedly shucked off his clothes (the ones he wore home on the plane from Germany, he didn’t fail to notice) and put on the blue attire. His heart racing, Peter exited the room. The shackles were once more tightened around his wrists, the cool metal burning his skin.

He turned around and stopped. His footsteps, his heart, his very thoughts- they all halted at the sight. At Ross, who stood there, holding a slim collar. Peter knew, without even really thinking about it, unconsciously and without pause, that it was for him. They sought to leash him. As if he wasn’t human.

And even though Peter had frozen, Ross hadn’t. The older man stalked forward, placing the steel around Peter’s neck without hesitation. Peter didn’t even stop him. He didn’t think he could if he tried.

“We’ve categorised your threat level as high,” Ross started, locking the smooth metal into place. “Until such time that testing shall occur, as an enhanced individual, we must take all the precautions we can to ensure that you do not endanger anyone else.”

That got Peter moving once again.

“Testing?” he whispered.

“Yes, Parker,” Ross smirked; that insufferable goddamn _smirk_. “Testing.”

“Don’t you…” he trailed off, almost afraid. He tried again. “Don’t you, I don’t know, have to read out my rights?”

Ross laughed; a deep, ugly cackle that sent a shiver down Peter’s spine.

“You don’t _have_ any rights, Parker,” he said. That couldn’t be right.

“But I’m a US citizen-”

“Freaks don’t have rights. Not here or anywhere else. Especially ones that don’t abide by the law.”

“I didn’t even _know_ it was part of the law!”

Peter felt as though his entire body was on fire. Electricity shot through him; first a slight tingle and then it became a roaring crescendo of burning within his veins. He dropped to the ground in a kneel, his legs unable to keep him upright through the pain any longer. His body shook and twitched and- and he could do nothing but scream, breathlessly and relentlessly. Until it stopped.

They had _shocked_ him. Using the collar around his neck.

Booted feet walked into the periphery of Peter’s vision. “Are we going to have any more problems?”

Peter sighed; his head hung. The perfect picture of defeat. “No,” he whispered, swallowing around the lump in his throat. He couldn’t even recognise the sound of his wheezing voice. “No. You won’t”.

 _Coward_.

From the time they shoved him back into his seat (strapped in and unable to move), to the moment the plane landed on the tarmac of the prison, it was the only thought echoing through his head. He was, well and truly, a coward. A brave hero, like Tony or Captain America, would have protected their families and taken down the corrupt government officials without a breath. _He_ had only managed to get Aunt May hurt and himself captured.

As soon as the jet’s doors opened, soldiers pulled him from his restraints and marched him into the metal tomb. There was the spray of water and the smell of salt; wherever he was, he would be surrounded by tons and tons of water. That did nothing to abate the fear curling inside of him.

Peter was well and truly freaked the fuck out.

With tight grips, the soldiers walked him through a bunch of steel doors, past security measures and into a gleaming ring of cells. Four of the cubicles were already occupied. Three men and a young woman, all dozing. Peter’s mouth went dry. _Holy hell_ \- they were the Avengers that had fought for Captain America. Hawkeye, another he assumed was Ant-Man, Falcon and Scarlet Witch.

Despite his inclinations to continue staring, he was promptly dragged over to another cell set into the wall, its space holding a bed and a stool. _No_. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t stay here indefinitely, couldn’t manage to stay in a watery tomb, couldn’t be sequestered away from the world.

His breathing rate increasing, Peter tried to push back against the soldiers holding him. With his superior strength, he managed to knock over a couple of the guards before a startling shock tore through his system.

He’d forgotten about the collar around his throat.

Pain racked his body, fire burning through his veins. _Holy shit_. _Holy shit. Holy shit._

“I hope that serves as the last reminder, Parker, of what happens to those who do not comply,” Ross said. Peter turned slightly, his body screaming at the movement, to see the Secretary standing behind him. He must have followed them in. “You’re a criminal and shall be treated as such.”

“I’m not-” Peter couldn’t believe how breathless he sounded.

“Not what? Be careful of what you say- I wouldn’t have to pay your darling aunt a visit so soon.”

That shut Peter up. He wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ , let May get hurt. Never ever. Even if he did want to punch that smug smile off of Ross’ face.

This time, he allowed himself to be dragged without fighting back. He thought of May and Ned and Liz. Of Tony Stark and the Avengers and of fighting crime. Anything, _anything_ to keep him sane and from slipping over the edge.

One of the guards unlocked the handcuffs around his wrists, leading him into what was to be his own personal cell. The small space was nothing more than a few square feet of reinforced glass, concrete and metal bars. Not only was it utterly freezing, but the smell was something to be reckoned with. A sharp mix of petrol and-

“That’s the scent of chloroethane. Better known as ethyl chloride,” Ross said. He must’ve sensed the question in Peter’s gaze. “Not only does it act as a gasoline additive, but it weakens spiders. Like a kryptonite, of sorts.”

“You’ve certainly done your research."

Ross chuckled. No matter how many times he heard it, the sound sent shivers down Peter’s spine. “Whatever it takes to keep criminals in check.”

He wanted to rise to the bait; he really, truly did. A part of him had a quip at the ready- _people like you only call us criminals to make you feel better about yourselves_ \- but the other half of him was scared. Afraid of the shock collar around his throat, of whatever the hell they could do to him without having to face the consequences. Trapped in a submerged prison, with nothing but asshole government officials and stormy ocean for miles around. Nobody would care what happened to him.

So, he kept his mouth shut.

And Ross did nothing but smirk, an amused glint in his eye, as he slammed the cell doors shut behind him. 

The sight of that smug son-of-a-bitch snapped something in Peter.

He didn’t know what he was thinking- he didn’t even know if he was really thinking at all- he just knew that he had to get out of wherever-the-fuck-he-was. Consequences be damned. Peter ran forward, to the glass walls that separated him from the outside, those which were keeping him trapped and contained and hidden away from the world. He began to hammer on the glass with his fists. Punch after punch after punch. But his efforts were rewarded with nothing but the blood that dripped from his beaten hands.

The super-strength that he so often relied upon had failed him. It had been torn away by whatever drugs they were pumping into his cell; just as everything else had been. 

Peter collapsed to his knees against the glass, tears pouring down his face.

He knew the others were watching. Knew they had woken up with all the noise he was making. The Avengers, his heroes, were observing his clusterfuck of a breakdown. But he couldn’t care less. His life as he had known it was gone, and here he was, cloistered away from the world.

Maybe Ross was right: perhaps he did deserve this. For being a mutant, a monster.

That thought did nothing to lessen the pain threatening to break Peter apart.

***

He woke a few hours later. His body hurt from lying on the cold, hard ground; and yet that ache had nothing on how he was feeling emotionally.

“Hey kid,” someone across from him said. The guy with the wings who he’d kicked to the ground in Leipzig. Falcon. “You doing okay?”

Peter didn’t say anything for a few moments. He had to take a few deep breaths, trying to get air into his aching lungs. But all it served to do was remind him that ethyl chloride was leaking into the cell, into his body, into his very being. Weak. He felt so goddamn _weak_.

“I’m-” he started. Stopped. Took a moment. “Yeah. I think I’m okay.”

Another voice joined the fray, “There’s a big difference between _being_ okay and _thinking_ you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have been short with them- they were the Avengers for one, and probably his only allies in this underwater tomb. But to be honest, he was embarrassed. They had seen him break down like he never had before; he hadn’t even been this much of a mess when Ben was shot. Murdered. Killed. Another shuddering sob tore through his small frame.

Maybe, stupidly, he had believed himself to be invincible. Not only did he have the powers he received from the spider bite, but he also was incredibly intelligent. But maybe he had become complacent. Taken too many risks; hungering for more and more and more.

Perhaps he did deserve this. Whatever _this_ turned out to be.


	2. lust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyo! come follow me on tumblr @incipientdream and twitter @incipient_dream !! getting ready to post some original content and also yell about the percy jackson adaption (my childhood is coming alive) !!!!!

_Lust: “an intense longing.”_

* * *

Peter ran. And nameless, familiar figures chased.

They called and beckoned, his name falling like honey from their lips. _Come here_ , they whispered, _Come back, Peter._

He couldn’t listen. He had to keep running, keep going. Away from the _wherever_ they sought to take him to. They would only imprison him. Or kill him. It was the same thing, really, at the crux of it all. Imprisonment was just a slower, more aching death. He’d prefer to just be killed outright.

He ran through the darkening streets, shadows pooling at his ankles, his skin catching on branches and twigs. They wrenched at his hair; stones tore into his bare feet. His blood trailed like tiny, crimson rivers.

The night air was crisp, raising goose flesh from his ivory skin. His body was weakening by the minute, despite his enhancements. It felt as though he had been going for hours upon hours, but he couldn’t stop. Not now. Not when he’d almost lost them.

Their footsteps were heavy upon the concrete ground. The thudding sound was drawing closer as they gained on him. And despite all his efforts, the chase was coming to an end. He could feel it on the fleshy bumps upon his skin that were no longer just from the cold, upon the tang of metal in the air. He couldn’t let them catch him. _He couldn’t he couldn’t he couldn’t-_

But they did.

They clawed at his milky skin. At the brown curls that clung to his neck. They dragged him back through the darkening streets. And only one thing echoed within Peter:

_Run._

Peter awoke to anguished screaming, intense and desperate and so utterly, utterly human. The noise tore through him, reverberating off the glass wall and echoing every which way. It took him a moment to realise he was the one making that sound.

He gasped for air. Though he was no longer asleep, he couldn’t shake the feeling of blood on his hands. Choking on ash and flame and sand. The understanding that he was _too late too late too late._ And through it all, Peter couldn’t help but focus on the familiar, loving face that always seemed to be haunting his dreams. Uncle Ben.

Peter leant over the side of his bed, dry heaving.

He’d been in there for all of a few hours. He’d fallen asleep the second he crawled into his bed after his catastrophic breakdown earlier. And already- already he wanted out. Had wanted out the first moment he was arrested and stolen and hidden away from the world.

“You alright over there?” A voice asked.

Peter shot up. He looked around and _there_ \- Antman.

“Does he look okay to you?” That had to be Hawkeye.

“I’m-” Peter choked out, “I’m yeah. I think. As good as anyone can be when sleeping in such a festering shit hole.”

“You look about ten years too young to be swearing,” said Hawkeye, raising an eyebrow as if in challenge. “But very much correct in saying this place is a shit hole. Quite a cesspool, I must say. Welcome to the rest of your life.”

Peter’s heart almost gave out at that statement. He knew that his stay on the Raft was indefinite but thinking about it as the rest of his life was a can of worms he didn’t want to open in the slightest. Not at all. Ever.

 _The rest of your life_.

It was haunting.

“I’m Wanda,” a soft, accented voice said. Scarlet Witch, he realised. She couldn’t have been much older than him. “Considering those lumps didn’t think it’d be a good idea to introduce themselves. Flappy man next to me is Sam, the only somewhat reasonable one out of us. Then it’s whack job Scott, and finally, Clint, bird brain numero uno.”

She paused, waiting, as if sensing his response. He didn’t know whether to reply. If they knew who he was would he blame him for his role in their imprisonment? Ross had already uttered his last name, regardless of whether the heroes were sleeping or not and had heard it. So maybe it wouldn’t hurt.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

Knowing his Parker luck, they’d hate his guts.

Finally, finally, _finally_ , he replied, “I’m Peter. Peter Parker.”

“What’d you do that’s so bad to get locked in here?” Clint asked.

Scott let out a laugh. “Especially with us losers?”

“I- um. I didn’t sign the Accords.”

There was a beat, a pause. A second of time that felt as though it stretched into a million years. Peter felt his heart beating, aching, twisting in worry. Would they realise? Would they care? Would they-

“You’re like seven,” Clint said.

“Fifteen.”

Wanda sucked in a breath. “You’re only two years younger than I.”

Peter nodded his head, sucking on a tooth.

“Holy fuck _._ Holy _fuck_ ,” Sam said. “You’re the spider dude.”

And there it was. The moment of truth, the whisper of veracity and candour and the entire fact of the matter. Here was the deciding factor. When this group of people, heroes and rogues and ex-Avengers, would decide whether or not to accept him. This here would also determine his stay here on the Raft. Oh god _oh god_.

He wished he hadn’t said anything. He wished he could take it all back. He wished so, so much.

“That’s why you sound so familiar,” Scott muttered. “You webbed my legs. That was _awesome_.”

Clint looked horrified, Peter realised. Completely and utterly furious as he said, “‘ _Awesome’_? Stark recruited a fucking child to fight a battle he had no part in.”

“I didn’t… I-’ Peter didn’t know what to say. He was lost and freaking the hell out and losing his mind. He felt- he felt trapped. Like the walls of his cell was closing in around him. Caving him in.

“You helped put us in here.” Sam’s fingers clenched.

Peter’s heart was hammering. “I’m sorry,” he whimpered, “I’m sorry- I didn’t know.”

“Sounds unlikely,” Sam said.

“You know Stark though,” Clint muttered, his breathing heavy and low. “He plays mind games.”

“We do not blame him for where he comes from, you absolute shitheads,” Wanda muttered. “He is here, with us now. He’s one of us.”

Scott started muttering a faint spiel of “one of us, one of us” and Peter wanted to giggle despite himself and the situation. He suddenly and weirdly felt thankful to these group of rogues- for their banter and comradery and somewhat willingness to include him.

He fell to the floor, hoping and praying everything would be okay. Or as okay as it could be in this floating prison.

From under his lashes, he stared out at the heroes in the cells around him. Sam and Clint were simmering down, which was a positive. Peter let out a breath. He could do this. He could get through this.

“So. Parker,” Sam said.

Peter looked up abruptly from his spot on the floor, staring at the dark-skinned hero. He knew that Sam, for whatever reason, had noticed his quietness, his tension, his need to shake off the frustration. And was trying to diffuse his emotions.

“Yeah?” replied the younger boy, eternally grateful for the distraction.

“You never answered my question. That web stuff- does it actually come out of you?”

Peter hacked out a small laugh.

“I mean I was too busy decking you to answer” - Clint cackled - “but no. It doesn’t. It’s an organic compound I used to make in the chem labs at school.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, the creases of his face filled with nothing but complete scepticism. “If I remember correctly, you were talking the most out of all of us. In fights there’s-”

“‘Usually not this much talking’,” Peter interrupted. “Yeah. I remember.”

Though it was arguably one of the coolest moments of his life, he really didn’t like thinking about Leipzig. Had he tried any harder to deny Tony’s offer (homework? Really? He had _much_ better excuses than that), he wouldn’t be sitting in a cold, dark cage.

Away from all those he loved.

Away from all the people he protected in Queens.

So sue him: Germany had hardly crossed his mind in the past couple of days; even before he’d been imprisoned in the Raft.

“That’s whack,” Clint said. He shook his head as if in amazement. “But I love it.”

Scott scoffed, “Of course you do. You love anything weird like that.”

“Says the guy who can talk to ants.”

“You sit in vents, shut the fuck up.”

A moment of silence. And then another beat.

“Did you just take your hearing aids out?” Scott sounded flabbergasted. “You _asshole_.”

Maybe, just maybe, Peter realised, he could get through this. Survive here, in this penitentiary of metaphoric darkness, until help came, or the authorities realised what the hell was truly going on. Then he would turn away and never look back.

A deep-seated longing crested his thoughts. Getting out. It sounded amazing.

***

The door that led out of the ring of cells opened.

Peter was laying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, when it happened. He bolted upright. Multiple guards walked into the area; bright, shiny handcuffs clenched in the hands of the one at the front of the group. His stomach gave out. He had a very, _very_ bad feeling about all of this.

The door to his cell unlocked. And though Peter wished with his entire begin to run, to escape and attack and get out of this hell, he didn’t. He thought of May and what would happen to her, of the collar around his throat, of how goddamn _weak_ he felt from hours of breathing in ethyl chloride.

He strolled forward, his head bowed.

“That’s what I like to see,” a voice murmured. It sounded exactly like someone who felt as though the entire world lay at his feet. Ross.

Peter imperceptibly flinched backwards.

“Testing time, Parker,” Ross continued, smirking. “Time to see what you’re really made of.”

That triggered it in him. His head whipped up, staring at Ross with fear widening his eyes.

“He’s fifteen!” Sam yelled.

Clint whacked the bars, agreeing, “That’s inhumane!”

Peter was ready to beg; to get on his knees and pray to whatever gods may be out there to spare him. He couldn’t do it. Doctors and testing and horror after horror.

“No, you can’t take me,” he said, voice breaking. “You can’t- you _can’t_.”

His mutterings were cut off by a shock from the collar around his throat, sending electricity racing through his bones. He gasped, falling to the floor. _Fuck_ , that hurt.

Ross took a few steps forward, crouching just inside the cell. He gripped Peter’s chin, yanking it forward. “Well isn’t it lucky you’re not human, Peter?”

“Get away from him, you _bastard_ ,” Wanda exclaimed. Though her voice wasn’t that loud, it spoke volumes, promising pain and suffering to anyone who didn’t do as she said. She stood in her own cell, the straight jacket inhibiting her movements. But that didn’t stop the imposing figure she cut, the pure loathing that lined her face. “He is a child.”

Her own collar began sending shockwaves through her body. She bit her lip, in pain, in anger, every part of her straining. 

“Well, well, well, Miss Maximoff,” Ross said. He stood from his position beside Peter, still gripping painfully on his chin. Peter rose with him, desperately attempting to push his feet beneath him. His bones still felt like lead from the shocking. “Seems to me,” continued Ross, “that we have an issue with you mouthing off my men and I. And that can’t be tolerated.”

Wanda’s scream tore through the space.

Her body writhed from the electricity coursing through her, her feet unable to keep their footing. And as she fell to the ground, the other rogue Avengers continued their pounding on the glass of their cells.

“Grab her.”

A number of the guards surged forward, pulling Wanda from the ground and marching her away. Away from her cell and the heroes and any sort of minimal safety that was provided in this hellhole.

“Take that as a lesson,” Ross murmured. He looked all too pleased. “Anyone who disobeys gets sent to solitary.”

And despite their anger, their grief, their continued protesting, the ex-Avengers nodded their heads in acquiesce. Even Peter, his face still gripped in Ross’ hand, consented.

He was completely and irrevocably worried about Wanda. She had refused to let him be taken- despite their close difference in age- and taken the brunt of the guard’s anger for herself. _God_ , she was only seventeen. And now she was in solitary. Victim to whatever horrors and mystery waited for her there.

He shuddered.

The rest of the soldiers moved towards him, the one with the handcuffs surging at breakneck speed.

“Come on, freak.” The guard looked ready to throw hands.

Peter shook his face from Ross’ fingers, putting out his wrists. The shackles clenched painfully around his skin, their presence symbolising everything he felt at the moment. Cold, numbing dread, a deep desire to be free despite all that prevented him from escape.

He took back what he said earlier. He didn’t think he could survive this place.

***

It was a world of white; white walls, white tiles, white lab-coats. And metal implements that absolutely and utterly screamed _danger_.

They had marched Peter from the cells to here: the labs, where bustling men and women refused to even look him in the face. He was pushed into one of the chairs and strapped in around his chest. The soldier glared at him, as if to say, _Don’t try anything. I won’t hesitate to turn your collar on._

Peter just regarded him with deadness in his eyes.

The soldier slunk off.

A woman took his place, glasses perched on her nose and a tray of syringes in her arms. Peter’s blood froze. He didn’t like doctors- or nurses or hospitals or clinics. Anything to do with them was _bad bad bad_.

Did he mention they were bad?

“Just blood samples today,” the doctor said. She plunked the tray down on the stand next to his chair. She pushed around for a few moments before sterilising the skin with a wipe. She readied one of the needles at Peter’s forearm. “We need copies of your DNA.”

He turned his head, refusing to look.

And after a few agonising moments, where his breath hitched in his throat, his heart ached, his thoughts ran endlessly in his mind, it was over.

Before happening again.

And again. And again.

He very nearly vomited.

The doctor stopped when all the vials of his blood were full. Thank _fuck_ it was done. He didn’t think he would last if she stuck one more needle in his body.

His head was a whirlwind as he was promptly unstrapped, dragged from the chair, and taken back to his cell. The second the handcuffs were unlocked from his wrists, Peter slumped on his bed. He was shaking, he realised. His entire body protesting everything that just happened.

“I’m sorry, Spidey,” Sam murmured amongst the silence.

“It’s- it’s okay.” Peter shook his head. “I mean- Mr Stark _promised_ he’d always help me. He’ll be here. He’ll do it.”

Clint scoffed, sitting down on his bed. “Tony does whatever he wants to benefit himself. He doesn’t give two shits about us.”

Sam clicked his tongue. “Don’t ruin the kid’s hope, Barton.”

“He’s right though,” Scott said. “What hope do we have? No one cares that we’re in here.”

“Mr Stark will. He has to.”

And Peter began to wonder whether his longing to be free was clouding his thoughts. But he had to believe in Mr Stark- he _had_ to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the dream sequence at the start of this chapter is from a random drabble i wrote a few years ago,,,,, i quite like it and thought it would fit perfectly ahhh


	3. gluttony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come talk to me on twitter @incipient_dream and tumblr @incipientdream !!

_Gluttony: “greedy or excessive indulgence”._

* * *

Michelle Jones was going to punch Betty Brant and Jason Ionello if she heard their pre-recorded voices pierce the halls of Midtown one more time. Then she would march right up to wherever the US Government was sitting at the present moment and punch every single one of their faces in. Especially that damned Secretary of State, Thaddeus Ross.

Normally, Michelle would pride herself on her ability to keep her emotions in check. Normally, she would never consider punching anyone in the face (other than Flash, ‘cause he was a _dick_ sometimes). Normally, words were her forte. Normally, however, her caring- somewhat nerdy and flaky- classmates were not being arrested and detained indefinitely. For being superheroes.

Which she already had known about, of course.

(Or was at least 67 per cent sure about).

Observance was one of her best attributes; it allowed her to see what most others don’t. Like the fact that Flash hadn’t seen his parents in two weeks, that Sally and Cindy had been sneaking off to the bathroom during class to do whatever it is that they do, that Peter Parker was fucking Spider-Man. Even with her ability to notice the finer details in life, Parker was not that subtle. Not at all in the slightest. It was a miracle that no one else had found out.

Michelle also knew that the Sokovia Accords was one of the biggest pieces of bullshit to have ever hit the fan. Because sure, taking away the rights of those who protect the world from torturous extra-terrestrials is a _grand_ idea.

Which is why, the day after a video leaked of Peter freaking Parker being marched out of his apartment in handcuffs, Michelle Jones walked into the school in complete anger. Her normally shoved away emotions and even mannered temperament (nicely doused with an ounce of sarcasm) were nowhere to be seen. No- she was absolutely and completely _fuming_.

Fuck you to the government and all that.

No one dared get in her way at school. That was probably a smart idea, she realised, considering that she was ready to snap at anyone who stopped her from doing what she needed to. The first of which was to talk to Ned Leeds. Peter’s best friend. Brother. Who was most likely feeling some inkling of betrayal at the fact that he hadn’t known about Peter’s night-time extracurricular activities.

Said boy was present and accounted for, sitting in the library and staring somewhat blankly at his phone.

“Ned?” Michelle said, taking the seat on the couch next to him. His head whipped towards her; his tanned skin flushed. _Oh_ , he was really not coping.

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again as he muttered, “What the _hell_.”

She felt for him, she really did. It couldn’t be easy finding out that your best friend was a vigilante now heading for the highest maximum-security prison probably in the world. Heck, even she was struggling with the knowledge.

“Are you okay?” she asked. Ned looked as though he was losing it more and more as the seconds ticked by. Especially considering the tears slowly brimming within the corners of his eyes.

“’Okay’?” His voice was strangled. “My best friend is fucking _Spider-man_. He’s going to prison. I have my mother breathing down my neck about the whole situation. And you’re asking if I’m okay?”

Alright, _that_ hurt.

But his emotions were completely understandable given the context; she couldn’t deny him his ability to grieve in his own way. Even if he was kind of acting a bit like a dick about it.

“Fair,” she replied. Her face creased in thought. “But at least I’m here on good terms.”

“Like what? You’re not just talking to me to find out whether I believe that Peter deserves to be in prison? To gain traction from me because I’m associated with a superhero?”

“If I was going to gain traction from Spider-Man it would have been because I outed his identity online forever ago to make a point about the dangers of teenage violence in the mass media. Which, obviously, I didn’t do.”

Ned looked up, his big, brown eyes looking despaired beyond repair. If _only_ she had her crisis notebook.

“You knew?” he whispered.

Michelle dipped her chin in agreeance. “I figured it out. But he doesn’t know that I know.”

The bell rang. Students- prying, annoying teens- began filling the library space. They stared at Michelle and Ned as if to find out anything of note. She scoffed. She wasn’t going to give up information that easily.

“Want to get out of here?” she asked Ned. He nodded his head.

The two wound up at an ice cream place down the road from school. Michelle hadn’t had any breakfast, but the hot fudge sundae was practically screaming her name. So she just had to get it. Society needed some spicing up anyway; the least of which was eating dessert at 8 in the morning.

She let Ned ponder over his milkshake in silence.

“I don’t know how I’m feeling,” he finally whispered. He didn’t look up from his drink. “On one hand, I know I need to stay strong to help Peter in any way I can. But I’m also feeling so, _so_ helpless.”

“I get it,” she said. “You’re allowed to feel however you need.”

God, as if she was going to be one to judge his emotions. Just because she kept hers under lock and key didn’t mean she wasn’t absolutely riddled with stupid, intense feelings. Sometimes being human sucked.

“I should be freaking out because Peter is a superhero, right? And yet I’m not because it just makes sense. It explains so many things.”

“Yeah,” she said.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

They went back to silence. And this time, Michelle realised, was different from before. It wasn’t a pondering, dread-filled silence, but a moment of peace. A quiet contemplation. She found she wouldn’t mind spending more time around Ned- and Peter, too. Even with all their nerdisms and Star Wars references and cute-

Her cheeks flushed ever so slightly.

“So, Michelle,” Ned said, breaking the silence and turning to look her straight in the face, “what are we going to do about this situation?”

Michelle just smirked, blinking away her previous thoughts about nerdy brunettes.

“I’m glad you asked. I have a perfect idea.”

***

Tony Stark, despite what the shit storm media thought, was not entirely put together. He lacked a ton and a half of wherewithal and often hid behind his picture-perfect facade. Especially in his current situation: visiting Thaddeus-rutting-Ross and trying to pry information from the ex-Avengers. His ex-friends-and-family. What a _mess_.

The Raft Prison, its inhabitants and its guards, were something else. It felt haunted, like lost dreams and hopes and of all things worth fighting for. Very similar to the Acheron River he’d seen in a movie that Pepper had once dragged him to watch. He was suddenly very grateful that he, too, was not stuck in this place.

The moment that he realised he had to come here, he'd known that Ross was not going to give him anything. There was no trust between the two of them. Nothing that screamed reliability. So, it was up to him to garner what he could from Sam and Clint and Scott. And not Wanda, Tony thought with ire, because she was chained and locked up with a shock collar and a straitjacket. What in _hell_ was Ross running here?

He knew he’d made a mistake the moment he’d entered the first level of cells.

Clint began clapping. “The Futurist, gentlemen!” That was stone-cold sarcasm dripping from the archer’s voice. “The Futurist is here! He sees all! He knows what’s best for you, whether you like it or not.”

And though Tony felt somewhat bad- these people had been his friends, once upon a time- he cracked.

“Give me a _break_ , Barton,” he said. “I had no idea they’d put you here. Come on.”

And Clint, one of the most reasonable men he’d had the pleasure of knowing, spat at his feet.

“Yeah, well, you knew they’d put us somewhere, Tony.”

Tony sighed, trying to regain his temperament. “Yeah, but not some super-max floating ocean pokey. You know, this place is for maniacs. This is a place for…”

“Criminals?” Clint whispered as he stood. Tony’s head whipped up. An unsettled feeling, like a glacial pang of acid or a thousand daggers, crept into his stomach and up to his throat. “Criminals, Tony. Think that’s the word you’re looking for”- a scathing look- “right? That didn’t use to mean me. Or-or any of us. But here we are.”

Never before had Tony wanted to run away from something like he did now. And so instead, he resorted back into scepticism and polarity. His most prized possessions.

“Because you broke the law,” he said. Even he realised that was a shitty argument in and of itself.

Clint scoffed, turning away. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t make you.”

“No, sure. You didn’t make us,” the archer replied before he whirled back around. Tony’s heart leapt at the sudden movement. “But what about a fifteen-year-old boy?”

Tony gulped. Clint couldn’t be talking about Peter; he just couldn’t. Sure, the majority guessed that Spider-man was on the younger side. The boy had done nothing to hide _that_ with all his pop culture references. But there was no way they would know anything else about him.

Right?

Right.

He didn’t know anymore who he was trying to reassure.

“Alright, you’re grown up, you got a wife and kids,” Tony said. Finally. Because he, Tony freaking Stark, had not hesitated for one single moment. Not at all. “I don’t understand, why didn’t you think of them before you chose the wrong side?”

He turned away- if only so Clint couldn’t see his face. Tony hadn’t meant to bring Barton’s family into the conversation. He just didn’t cope well with any sort of _guilty_ feelings. His version of begging for forgiveness dealt with buying expensive pieces of art or attempting to fix the situation by saving the world from invading alien races. None of these accidentally getting his friends (ex-family?) thrown into maximum-security prison shenanigans.

But mentioning an off-the-grid, hidden by the best of the best SHIELD operatives, family? Especially in front of armed soldiers and a crazed government official? That didn’t buy into any of it. He knew he’d crossed a line. But it was an accident.

Bile rose in his throat.

“You gotta watch your back with this guy,” Clint said, his voice low. Broken. Betrayed. “There’s a chance he’s gonna break it.”

Tony had never been the religious type, but _dear lord_ did he need some help from whatever deities may exist in the world. Even the Asgardian type. Because he was, one hundred and fifty per cent, going to hell for everything.

But he had to shake it off. He still had a job to do. Not be distracted by his once friend, who had spoken with such betrayal coating his voice, or of the young spider-themed hero, who needed checking up on. Because as much as Tony didn’t want to admit it, the conversation with Barton had shaken him to his very core.

No, he needed to find the Captain.

He was starting to feel like a broken record.

Tony walked past the not really known hero, Antman- Scott Lang- _whoever_ , who tried to lecture him on trust. Which he promptly ignored. He kept going, strolling to Sam Wilson, shutting off the audio feed built into the Raft, and demanded everything. And _fine_ , if Tony had to admit that he made a mistake with Rogers and Barnes, he would. Apparently, that was the right thing to say (because Tony Stark _always_ knew the right thing to say). Sam did, indeed, tell him everything.

But just as they finished talking, as Thaddeus Ross burst back into the room imprisoning his former teammates, Tony noticed the cell two from Sam’s. It wasn’t empty, as he originally thought. No, there was someone, with brown curls and ivory skin huddled into the corner. _Big yikes._

“Who’s the lucky son of a gun that got trapped with the Avengers?” Tony really didn’t like _feelings_. His body responded in weird ways (he felt quite _icky_ , for lack of a better word), and he didn’t know how to cope. Which led to humour at inopportune moments. Like taking out his guilt on whoever the poor sod was currently serving out the remainder of his life in a place like the Raft.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Ross had the audacity to smirk.

It sent Tony reeling.

“Well, see, that’s why I asked. I don’t particularly like talking to snakes for longer than I have to.”

Ross’ eyes narrowed- that was better. Tony preferred having the upper hand; making people angry and irritated and seeing red was both his blessing and his curse. He was, frankly, really fucking good at it. And it was, one hundred per cent- no questions asked- better than _guilt_.

“Doesn’t matter anyway,” the secretary said, huffing and sticking out his chest much like a proud bird. “He’s not human. Ain’t that right, boy?”

And suddenly, Tony had a very, _very_ incredibly bad feeling. Like rancour but worse. He wished he could rewind to just a moment ago- when he had complete control over his circumstances. Because if his current thought processes were in any way correct, things were not good. At all.

Tony caught Ross’ eye.

“It’s no one,” Ross said. He was walking to the door, very obviously trying to draw Tony’s attention away from the unknown prisoner that stirred the acrimony within his stomach. “Don’t you have runaway Avengers to be finding, Stark?”

Tony nodded absently.

Fuck it. Whatever. It didn’t matter. He tried to reassure himself that whoever was in there must be for good reason; ignoring the common sense part of his brain that told him the other Avengers didn’t really deserve to be there, either. He had a job, a duty, a task: find Steve. Find Bucky. Fix this shithole of a situation. Nothing else held significance.

Ross held open the door that led to out and away from the guilty feelings that sat within the reinforced glass cells. It would do better to leave it all behind. But, for some reason, Tony afforded himself one last glance through the doorway- and at the faces beyond. His attention was caught by a pair of very familiar, very scared, puppy dog-like hazel eyes.

The door slammed shut.

_What the fuck_.

***

Tony whirled; all sense of pretence gone. And those guilty feelings? Back in full force like no tomorrow.

“Stark-”

“When in _fuck_ ,” Tony interrupted, not giving a damn about _anything_ , “were you going to tell me that you trapped a fifteen-year-old boy in a prison? For what? Helping the little people?”

“He didn’t sign the Accords,” Ross said it so matter-of-factly, so unemotional and straightforward that it sent Tony into a flurry. He was seeing red. Anger, hot and burning, flooded his body in absolution.

“He’s a minor,” Tony hissed. “Nothing he signs is legal.”

“And he’s also an unregistered, enhanced individual. He poses a significant threat level.”

“That’s not-”

“What?” This time it was Ross who whirled around, ire lacing every word. “Not true? You and I both know he is not fully human. If I were you, Stark, I would go on my merry way while I still can.”

Tony’s heart fluttered. “You can’t just expect me to leave him here like this.”

“Bring me Rogers and Barnes. Then we’ll talk,” Ross said, turning away. “I might be feeling more like compromising when I have what I’m owed.”

He knew, realistically, that walking away was a dumb idea. Legally, he had no stance on the situation; thanks to the Accords, which he was slowly realising were a big, huge, colossal fuck-up on his behalf to sign. But if he were to have a chance of getting Peter out- and the rest of the Avengers- then he had more of a chance from his Tower. With all his robots and suits and AIs.

So, Tony stalked off. Away from everything that mattered in the current moment. Away from the young boy who had looked at him, hope brimming in eyes that looked far too old for a child. Away from Ross, the smug son-of-a-bitch who was the cause of at least a third of his grey hairs. He felt sick. The guilt was threatening to eat him alive. But he kept on walking away, onto the jet and back home.

His phone buzzed once they got back into the air. Happy. Hopefully with some good fucking news.

“Boss,” Happy started. The head of security’s voice was filled with- was that _panic_? Obviously not good news then. “Parker’s been arrested-”

“No _shit_ , Happy. How does a little slow on the uptake sound?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, yes. i didn’t feel it necessary to repeat the entire conversation from the movie between tony and the avengers!! it was too clunky to completely write out- but it all still happens


	4. wrath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i apologise for a) the lateness of this chapter and b) the fifty seven billion povs

_Wrath: “strong vengeful anger or indignation. Also, retributory punishment for an offense or a crime: divine chastisement.”_

* * *

He didn’t know what he was thinking. He didn’t even know if he was thinking. Mister Stark had been there- a few feet away from him- and Peter had frozen. His one chance to plead his case, to possibly escape this watery death trap, and he’d done nothing. Absolutely shit all.

He was an _idiot_. A grade A, free-for-all idiot.

“You okay, buddy?” That was Scott. Or at least Peter thought it was Scott amidst all the train wreck of thoughts battling through his head.

Diffuse, diffuse, _diffuse_.

“Fine,” Peter replied.

He didn’t feel fine.

If anything, he’d never felt less than fine. It was though every fibre of his being, every aching, wretched part of him, from head-to-toe, had lost all semblance of reality. As if he was encased in insurmountable throes of hopelessness, where no actuality existed.

Scott replied a noncommittal hum.

Oh, _god_. What had he done?

Nothing existed in that moment. No pain, no feeling, no thoughts. No _nothing_. Nothing in that moment but Peter, the dreary metal tomb, and his idiotic decision.

But then again- Mister Stark had seen him. They had locked eyes, their gazes meeting. And shock had lit up the entirety of his mentor’s face. Maybe Mister Stark didn’t care that Peter was locked up, that he was slowly wasting away to a ghost, belonging to no one or nothing.

But amidst the raging timbre of his thoughts, there was the recognition of a conversation occurring.

“Subtle comment about Mark Furhman,” Clint said. His voice was loud, louder than usual. Peter snapped to attention.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What? The fact that you take the brunt of everything for us?” Scott asked, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t do that for us.”

Peter blinked. Surely, there was nothing behind that comment. _Surely._ Because the implications meant something far sinister then he wished to comprehend at the present moment _._

“What do you mean?”

He had to be sure.

A heartbeat.

A breath.

A moment.

“The couple of days before you got here,” Sam said, “The guards had a fascination with getting information out of us.”

“No,” Peter breathed.

“They won’t risk hurting the others unless they mouth off the guards or try to escape. Those two have families”- a gesture to Scott and Clint- “and Wanda is young enough to warrant sympathy.”

“That’s barbaric. What the _fuck_.”

Peter thought he vaguely heard Clint mutter _“language”_ in a high-pitched, mimicking voice.

“I’m the lone wolf. Captain America’s lackey. They’ll try anything they want.”

What sort of gig were they running here? Peter knew it was bad- what with the indefinite imprisonment, forcing of DNA, shock collars, and the like- but _torture_? That was a whole different can of worms. A whole other level of completely screwed up.

“Mister Stark wouldn’t allow-”

“As I said earlier,” Clint muttered, “Stark only does things for himself.”

“But surely-”

Sam jumped in, “I don’t want to dash your hopes, kid, but Clint’s right. If we were important enough that Stark needed us, we’d already be gone from here.”

Peter didn’t want to believe it but a tiny, slowly increasing, kernel of that truth resounded within him. If Mister Stark had wanted him freed from the Raft, wouldn’t it have already happened? He’d been used multiple times by the billionaire before; it wasn’t _that_ much of a stretch to suggest it was happening again.

But if he didn’t believe in Mister Stark what hope would there be of escaping this place?

He couldn’t give up that quickly.

Otherwise his anxiety and anger and overall anguish would eat him up alive.

***

May Parker was angry at the world. Angry for so, so many reasons. It filled her up, ate her from the inside out, and threatened to consume her on the daily.

The main reason for her vehement was because someone, whether it be a higher deity like the Norse gods- who turned out to be real- or some stupid cosmic fallout, had decided that her nephew was going to be given spider powers and become a superhero. A fucking superhero. At such a young age.

He was still in school for crying out loud.

He was a _baby_.

And yet for all of her anger at the universe, all the pain and blessed, blessed fury, it didn’t shift her own guilt and blame. Because she was also mad at herself; for not realising, not sensing it, not understanding.

Her mind was filled with so many _what-ifs_. If only she’d known earlier, she could have helped. Kept him safe and sane. And out of that prison with those psychopaths.

But she couldn’t let the guilt overwhelm her. She had to do something, anything, with her limited influence to get her poor, poor Peter out of the Raft. It was his- and her- only hope.

So. Tony Stark it was.

The Avengers Tower looked as pristine as it ever did, filling with workers and scientists as the day fully dawned.

May walked into the building, her head held high. Her brunette hair was tied in a plait, and the sound of her heels clicked on the marbled flooring. No one was getting in her way today.

She walked through the doors with absolute purpose.

The man at the front desk lifted an eyebrow as May stopped before him.

“I’m here to see Tony Stark,” she said. Purpose, purpose, purpose. No room for uncertainty.

He just scoffed, as if he could see right through her.

“Do you have an appointment?”

His voice was nasally and poignant and May really just wanted to punch him right in the face. A nice, good right hook to straight to his cheek. It’d be so satisfying.

 _Purpose_.

“I don’t have an appointment, no.”

A small smirk graced his face. “Then I’m afraid you’re unable to see Tony Stark. Good day.”

May stuck her chin up into the air, proud and strong and unwavering. Or at least she hoped she looked that way. Maybe. Possibly.

 _Ugh_.

“I’m not leaving. I’m here to see Tony Stark.”

If anything, the man behind the desk seemed even smugger than before. His entire face was alight with glee.

“Then I shall have to call security,” he said. “Unless you have an appointment you cannot see Tony Stark. He’s a busy man and has no time for whatever willy-nilly initiative you’re trying to set up.”

She was going to burst. From anger and fury and upset at the deep sense of self-righteousness this man portrayed. He was the worst of the worst. The very type of person designed to give her hell on earth.

Maybe it was time to resort to begging.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice close to breaking. “I need to see Stark. It’s important.”

“No. Can. Do.”

A dinging noise resounded through the open area, followed by the opening of elevator doors. And speak of the fucking devil. Tony Stark walked through, head high, hair messed, and narcissism simply oozing from every one of his pores.

For the first time in her life, May was ecstatic to see the billionaire. _Okay_ , ecstatic was stretching it; but she was as relieved as ever.

He continued towards her, though he hadn’t seen her yet. She went to meet him, leaving the receptionist behind her with a squeaked _“Ma’am you can’t do that!”_

May was glad to be rid of him.

“Stark,” she called, full of purpose. “I need to speak with you.”

Said billionaire’s head whipped up from his phone. His face seemed to break.

“May, I-”

“It’s about Peter. Please.”

He gulped. “Fine. Okay. Let’s head upstairs.”

May turned around, staring at the receptionist. She gave him a smug smile of her own and a sharp, little wave. He only glared back, his eyebrow continuing to raise high into his hairline.

Mocking him was everything she hoped it would be.

With a little skip in her step, May caught up to Tony, who was almost back to the elevators. If she hadn’t been here for such dire reasons, she would have marvelled at the Tower. It was so pristine and grand and- and _very_ Tony Stark-esque. And she hated herself for liking it all the same.

He pressed a button and the doors opened, the two walking into its surprisingly spacious interior.

An oddly android-like voice shuddered through the speakers. “Back to the penthouse, boss?”

Stark nodded and they began rising.

It would be nice to be rich. Like, really, _really_ nice. May wouldn’t mind it in the slightest. She could picture it: her and Peter, living together wherever they wished, eating takeout to their hearts’ desire, never worrying about paying the bills on time. But at the moment, all she really cared about was getting Peter out of the Raft, out of prison, out out _out_. Her poor boy was trapped and hidden and away from her loving embrace. She’d never take their time together for granted ever again. Her heart felt heavy.

They continued rising up.

“You really should look at changing some of your staff, Stark,” she said. She had a burning need to take her mind off things and dragging the receptionist seemed like a fun idea. “They kind of suck.”

“I’ll note that for later.”

His response wasn’t really an _I’ll take that into consideration_ but more of an _I recognise that you’re talking but don’t really care for the conversation_. May let it slide. Even if she now also felt like punching him for that statement.

The elevator stopped.

As soon as the doors opened, the two of them stepped out, and May hated herself even more for the feelings that continued to well up inside of her. Being rich really would be a nice thing.

Screw the Stark’s and all their money.

“Do you want a drink?”

May looked up at Stark and noticed he was standing by a bar drowning in alcohol.

“No,” she replied, somewhat startled. “No, thank you.”

He just nodded, pouring himself a glass of some amber coloured liquid. Then quickly sculling it. And pouring another. With a heavy sigh, he lay across one of the sofas and indicated with a flick of his hand for May to take one herself. She sat, rather more cautiously than he, snuggling into the oddly comfortable chairs.

Stark stared sullenly at his drink before asking, “What do you need?”

May flinched at the abrupt tone.

“What I _need_ is to get Peter out of the Raft.”

“That’s not an easy task.”

She hmphed, oddly offended. “I never expected it would be.”

Stark looked up, and May noticed what she hadn’t before: how his eyes were uneasy, his cheeks were sullen, his forehead was beading with sweat. He looked like a mess. It was how she was feeling on the inside.

“I don’t know what you want from me, May,” he said. “I’m trying my best.”

She raised a pointed, carefully manicured eyebrow. “And drowning your sorrows in alcohol is going to help?”

Stark stood in his seat, and May moved to meet him. He was really short.

“You don’t know what I’m going through at the moment, Mrs Parker. I’m doing all I can to help Peter.”

Coming here today had been a mistake. A completely and utterly horrible, terrible idea that was turning out to be doing more bad than it was good. She felt herself slipping. Her emotions, her mentality, even her knees slowly falling lower and lower.

“He’s _my_ boy, Stark. And I refuse to let him rot in that festering shithole they call a prison.”

With a sigh, Stark fell back into his seat on the sofa. He began speaking again. “I know you don’t like me, May, but-”

May, her heart pounding, beating, a relentless thrashing within her chest, interrupted him, “You’ve got it wrong. I used to not like you because I could see that you were just another stuffy, pretentious billionaire.” She took a breath, her eyes narrowing. “But now- now I _detest_ you. I can never forgive for being the reason Peter is in fucking prison.”

For almost the first time, Tony fell silent. May watched the war waging on his face; the dismissal, the pride, the sorrow. She felt a small sense of satisfaction burning deep within.

She had to get out of here before she broke. Even that small, infinitesimal feeling of satisfaction couldn’t shake the burning desire to destroy anything and everything to get Peter back.

“I shouldn’t have come here,” she whispered.

She pulled herself back up to full height, sticking out her chin and staring daggers with her eyes.

“May-”

“Good day, Stark.”

She walked and walked, out of the penthouse and back into the elevators, down down down and out of Avenger’s Tower. Purpose, she had a purpose.

Get Peter out of prison.

Even if she had to do it herself.

***

There was something to be said about drafting a plan to storm into a billionaire’s hotspot. Especially considering it was Tony Stark’s house they were planning on, so very, very politely, entering. Michelle was very ready to burn the world to the ground, and Avenger’s Tower seemed an appropriately good place to begin.

She stood inside her bedroom; Ned seated on her bed. He had his laptop in hand and was staring at the schematics for the Tower.

“It’s not going to be easy,” he said. “If we had- had Peter’s webs we could just swing up. But the only other way is just to stalk into one of his labs and hope for the best.”  
Michelle thought about it.

As much as she wished for there to be an easy solution, there wasn’t one. But then again, coming up with the complexities was half the fun.

“What if we posed as Peter’s friends?” She asked. Yes, _yes_ her thoughts were brewing.

Ned looked up and confusion was sprawled across his face. “I thought we already _were_ Peter’s friends.”

“No, no,” she said. “Tony would have had to have some way to confuse the company about suddenly working with Peter, right?”

Recognition dawned in Ned’s eyes. Yes, he was slowly getting it.

“He would have had to have some sort of scapegoat.”

“Exactly.”

Ned nodded before looking back at his computer. “So, Mister Stark would have input something into his servers about why he was suddenly so interested in working with a teenage boy.”

“Where did Peter say he was going when he went to Germany?” Michelle asked.

“He was going to work on his Stark Internship.”

“Bingo, Leeds.” She whistled approvingly. “The Stark Internship.”

Finally, it felt like the two of them were getting somewhere. They could use Peter’s ‘Stark Internship’ to at least gain access to the buildings and hopefully some sort of interaction with Stark himself. Hopefully. Blessedly.

She wasn’t one for religion but God (gods?), she was praying that this worked. It had to. She refused to take no for an answer.

Ned gave her a soft smile, and she realised how much she had longed for the company of other people. Most of the time, yes, she preferred her own presence, her own thoughts and musings. But she liked this- whatever _this_ was. People. Teamwork. The sharp tang of friendship.

So maybe she and Ned hadn’t really been friends before. Neither had she been with Peter, for that matter. But they always made academic decathlon fun, and from the few conversations they’d had prior, she liked the two boys as much as she had ever liked anyone before. She didn’t really deal with _friends_ , but she thought that maybe they weren’t such a bad thing to have.

Especially if they were Ned and Peter.

But that was her secret and no one else’s.

Sometimes it served her well to be so safeguarded. No one knew her secrets, her thoughts, her emotions. It was much better that way. At least that’s how she thought it was.

However, there was nothing to prove the contrary- except for maybe the two boys whose company she found she liked.

But that was a problem for Future Michelle, not for _now_.

“Look alive, Leeds,” she said. “We’re heading into the belly of the beast.”

Honestly, Ned looked like he was about the throw up the contents of his belly right there on the concrete outside of Avengers Tower. She couldn’t blame him.

He just replied, “Let’s just get this over with. We can’t let Peter rot in prison any longer.”

“That’s the spirit.”

And they walked inside.

The eco-friendly, oddly modernistic look of the building spoke to Michelle’s heart. This place involved almost everything she stood for (except maybe other key activist issues), and she would have been happy to be here if she one, didn’t hate Tony Stark, and two, wasn’t trying to save her friend.

Their feet clacked on the tiles as they continued walking inside, the only sound other than the faint chatter of people who _actually_ worked here. It was oddly confronting.

Even though, lo and behold, their luck continued improving. Tony Stark stood in the lobby, eyes glued to his phone and his lips moving as if he was talking. Probably was speaking to one of his AIs, Michelle realised.

Her and Ned exchanged a look; and though his entire body screamed anxiety about the present situation, there was a steely resolve within his eyes. Neither of them would be leaving without doing _something_ to help Peter escape the totally illegal operation at the Raft.

The two walked straight up to Tony Stark, albeit with some weird looks from the other people within the lobby. Just before they stopped, said billionaire looked up and his body seemed to melt with weariness.

“Why are two children in my building?” he asked. And despite the question, his tone suggested that he knew _exactly_ who her and Ned were. It left a funny feeling in her stomach.

Before Michelle could reply, Ned beat her to it. _Smart_. He was the least likely of the two to erupt.

“We’re here about Peter, Mister Stark,” Ned murmured. “We need your help. Please.”

Stark crumbled even further if that was possible.

“Fine,” he said. With a nod of his head, he indicated for them both to follow him. They did.

The walk to the elevators seemed to take years, with prying eyes, security cameras, and hollowed whispers following their every movement. _Jeez_ , Michelle had no idea how Peter coped with this sort of attention when he was Spider-man. It felt as though every person was scrutinising their actions, debating their presence or just saying a nice, well-rounded _what the hell is going on here_.

It was a very exposing sort of feeling. Gross.

She was suddenly thankful she was just a regular human and not a superhero having to deal with thousands, heck millions, of curious glances at every opportunity. Her and Ned shared another wary glance, one that said he, too, agreed with that weird feeling of exposure and scrutiny.

The elevators were a nice, calming reprieve from all the prying looks. She allowed herself to marvel at the sleek foundations, at the AI that spoke and sent their trio up to the penthouse on the top floor.

As soon as the doors opened, Stark stalked out, as though he was trying to get away from the two teenagers as quickly as possible. He probably was. Michelle didn’t think she blamed him, especially with the pure sense of distaste that she was oozing.

Her and Ned followed.

“Good morning, Mr. Stark. I’d like to propose something to you,” Michelle said. She figured her best bet was to start off polite, strong, unwilling to crumble in the face of egotistical billionaires.

Stark, dramatic as ever, turned in his spot with a scathing look. “What is it with people thinking they can just barge into my home today?”

Michelle struggled to not roll her eyes.

“No one cares about your antics, Stark,” she muttered. “All we want to know is how you plan on getting Peter out of that shithole of a prison.”

A sigh. “I have my plans. But it’s not my style to give out precious information to impressionable, erratic teenagers.”

“And that’s exactly the reason why he’s stuck in there in the first place.”

Ned whirled, eyes wide. He mouthed her name as if in shock.

_Oops._

But she didn’t feel bad. She hadn’t come here today with a plan to become best friends with the billionaire. No, she’d stormed into the Tower, with poor, _poor_ Ned in tow, and wanted to rally support for the get-Peter-out-of-prison group (it was a work in progress).

(Even though there was something kind of perfect in the name all the same).

Stark pursed his lips.

“I like your tact. Even if your tone is something to be reckoned with.”

“I don’t care about my tone, Stark,” Michelle said. She took a few steps forward, stopping just before the billionaire. He was a _lot_ shorter in person. “What I care about is getting my- my _friend_ out of prison before he loses all hope.”

Stark lowered his head, eyes digging holes in the ground below. She could feel the snark, the anger, dripping from him.

“I’m trying,” he whispered. It sounded as if he wasn’t trying to reassure just them, but himself, too.

Ned seemed to pipe up.

“I don’t mean to offend, but _how_ are you trying?” Ned asked. “You’re Iron Man, an Avenger. Isn’t there more you could do?”

Stark clenched his jaw. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but the Avengers have pretty much broken up. I’m completely and utterly on my own here.”

“So, there’s no hoping you’ll help us?” Michelle murmured, voice dangerously, dangerously low. “I guess we’ll have to do it ourselves.”

“There’s nothing a couple of kids are going to be able to do.”

Michelle was going to punch Stark upside the head. She noticed Ned next to her looked as if he was buzzing, ready to strike or kick or do any sort of damage.

“At least we’re trying to do something.” Her voice was venom, poison, prepared to attack. “That’s more than you can say.”

This time, this time he refused to reply. The billionaire just continued standing in his spot, glasses slipping down his nose and breath blowing his goatee. He was a sorry sight. And Michelle wanted nothing to do with him.

She got ready to move, she didn’t know where, but a soft hand on her shoulder stopped her. Ned stood there, eyes downcast. He shook his head and she knew what he was saying. _Now’s not the time to pounce. We’ll do it ourselves_.

Her only response was to humph.

“Thanks for your time, Mister Stark,” Ned said. Michelle really felt absolutely no similar inclination to her friend.

Said billionaire just continued staring at anywhere but them, not replying, or acknowledging, or doing anything to notice their continued presence. Michelle stood to attention, her eyes throwing daggers. She grabbed hold of Ned’s arm and practically dragged him to the doorway. But before they left- before anything else could happen- she gave Stark one more look.

“It’s on you,” she whispered. “Whatever happens to him in there is because of you.”

She slammed the door behind them.

***

Tony Stark was going to scream.

He needed space, eighty-five different plans, and a shot (or seven) of some strong alcohol.

But all he got was people willy-nilly attacking him in his own home at all hours of the day. It really fucking sucked.

He didn’t think he was cut out for this life anymore.

Especially considering he hadn’t been able to tell May about seeing Peter. That though their eyes had only met for just a moment, Tony had been able to see the pain and anguish and fear that boiled deep within the poor child’s eyes. That there was a shock collar around his throat. That the Raft was not a place for any child to be.

Hell, it wasn’t a place for anyone to be. Even Barton or Maximoff or Wilson or Lang. They were all heroes wrongly imprisoned.

Put there by Tony himself for his colossal fuck up in signing the Accords.

Regret was a common feeling at the moment.

With a sigh, he walked back over to the bar, pouring himself a strong glass of whisky. So much for him taking a break from alcohol.

There were too many things on his mind. Peter, a child, trapped and lost. May and Ned and Michelle, looking, hoping, dreaming for a way to get a superhero out of a super-max prison complex. And Steve, a brother, a friend, who had screwed off to Siberia without Tony.

Life sucked.

Whoopty-freaking-doo.

Tony sculled his drink in one, steady gulp before he threw the glass to the floor below. He watched it shatter, millions of tiny shared breaking apart just like his heart, his hopes, his sense of life. It was a really stupid metaphor, but it felt real all the same.

He rubbed his face with his hands, trying to shake off the awful feeling that pervaded his entire body. He needed a plan. What could he possibly do on his own? Rhodey was in the hospital recovering from his fall and couldn’t help him take on the government like the last time there was a giant mess. And everyone else had pretty much left.

There was only one more person who could help, but he, too, had gone. Steve was off with Barnes, traipsing through Siberia for whatever reason fancied them. But Tony needed them, even the Winter Soldier.

He needed to do whatever it took to get Peter out of jail. To return the poor boy to his home, his family, his friends, for what Tony had gotten him into.

It was time to go to Siberia.

It was time to face Steve.


	5. pride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a warning: this is where the story starts to get a bit darker!  
> dont forget to come follow me on tumblr @incipientdream and twitter @incipientdreams for more :)

_Pride: “the quality or state of being proud. Also, with proud or disdainful behaviour or treatment, disdain.”_

* * *

For Peter, time in the Raft became a tandem of _before_ and of _after_. _Before_ spoke of all things good and superlative and ambrosian. He had been a friend, a nephew, a hero to the people of Queens. He had been Spider-Man. But _after_ was, lamentably, the now, the present, the whole stuck-in-the-Raft for the foreseeable future type deal. Where he was reduced to nothing but Peter Parker: the criminal. The mutant.

The freak.

The days had turned into days, the weeks into months. Months. He had been locked in this place for _months_.

His birthday had passed. Peter was now sixteen years old. Too young, too old. Feeling trapped and hopeless and nothing and everything.

The only way he had even known was because Scott had been marking the number of days that had passed as a tally on the wall. The only way they celebrated had been with the most sombre, depressing singalong of the happy birthday song. The only way to respond had been to cry.

He wondered, not for the first time, how long it would be until he went completely, batshit insane. Probably not long, if he was being honest. There was almost nothing to do but sit with his thoughts, his musings and that was definitely a sure-fire way to lose any rationality.

Peter’s mind turned to Liz.

Not that he’d willingly admit it to anyone, but he had liked her. Okay, so maybe Ned had known, but Ned was his brother. They told each other everything. Well, _almost_ everything. Spider-man had meant to stay a secret.

But he hoped she was okay. That she was surviving and living and not begrudging him from keeping such life-changing information from her. That he was a fake, a liar, a boy trying to fill an adult’s shoes.

A bang knocked him out of his thoughts.

Each of the prisoners sat up in their beds, and Clint quickly fitted his hearing aids into his ears. A number of guards walked through the doors, handcuffs at the ready. Peter’s heart began beating, and a selfish part of him hoped that they weren’t coming for him. He didn’t think he could cope with another trip to the laboratory he was taken to each week. But they weren’t. The footsteps stopped as they paused outside of Sam’s cell. The ex-Avenger himself just seemed resolved to let the current of events take him.

And even though Peter selfishly hadn’t wanted it to be him they had taken, he couldn’t just sit idly by.

“You can’t-”

But one of the soldiers interrupted him. “We can do what we like,” they said. “And if you don’t want the same to happen to you, I would shut your big mouth.”

“That’s inhumane,” Wanda whispered.

None of the guards had a reply to that. But they didn’t seem to care all the same.

Another opened up Sam’s cell and held out vibranium cuffs for the ex-Avenger to be locked into. Sam held out his hands willingly and Peter watched in quiet awe at the older man’s restraint.

The guards jostled Sam, yanking him from the space and out through the doors. They slammed shut behind them, leaving the other prisoners in the wake of silence.

“I miss ice-cream.”

Peter looked up at Scott and the obvious deflection of any sort of tension that sat heavily within the room.

“They had this sorbet at a shop down the road from where I lived in Sokovia,” Wanda replied. “It was the most delicious thing I’ve ever had.”

Clint sat up on his bed, twisting his hearing aids, before muttering, “Mint-choc chip is the best flavour. No doubt.”

Peter shuddered. “Mint anything is the worst.”

“I’m disowning you,” Clint said. “I can’t believe you don’t like mint.”

Scott whistled favourably.

“Spiders and mint don’t mix. I learnt that the hard way.”

“That’s fair, I guess,” Wanda said. “Poor spider boy.”

“Good conversation, guys,” Scott said. “I’m going back to my nap.”

Clint perked up. “What if I just didn’t sleep, like ever? Do you think I’d survive?”

“Sometimes I swear you say the most stupid things.”

Clint looked ready to punch him. “Says you.”

“Sorry it hurt when I called you stupid,” Scott said. “I thought you already knew.”

“Quiet, you ugly mug.”

“Are you saying I don’t look pretty?” Scott shook his head.

Clint just sighed, “I will kick your ass all the way to Asgard if you don’t shut the fuck up.”

Peter hacked a laugh. This is the way they all coped: jokes, forced and welcomed, needed to quiet the hum of palpable fear. Especially at the thought of all Sam was going through.

“Is it ever possible for you to be quiet?” Wanda asked.

 _No, never_ , Peter thought. But then again, he wouldn’t change their noisy, relentless antics for anything.

He didn’t think the others would either.

They all waited and waited, forcing jokes, teasing each other, trying to distract from their present circumstances. Sam came back a few hours later, fresh bruises and blood coating the skin of his face, his arms, his throat. He didn’t seem angry but instead was resigned, weary. Ready to take whatever came to him.

It was a sorry sight for such a fearsome hero.

No one said anything, letting Sam sit in his quiet, in his resigned silence.

“We’ll get them back one day,” Wanda finally whispered. “We will. I’ll make sure of it.”

Sam just shook his head in acknowledgement.

Peter’s thoughts became worrying, all caught in a flutter. Who knew if they would come for him like they had Sam? He was a kid, yes, but he was also an enhanced. It was only a matter of time.

His heart began to beat even quicker in a blind panic.

Peter realised he had to get out of here. Not just his cell, but the Raft, the secrets, the whole mess of his life. Dead or alive. He didn’t really care at this point.

Ross had certainly achieved one thing: Peter no longer had any will or way.

But now was the time to act. It had to be.

It really, really had to be. There was no other chance.

No other hope but now.

Peter wondered how he was going to achieve this. His first action would have to be to rip the shock collar from his throat and remove that as the most pressing obstacle. And from there, it was almost certified freedom. At least from the cell.

These thoughts were intoxicating, alluring. A fever dream.

He would do it. He would, he would, he _would_.

Peter snuck onto his bed, lying down under the blanket to hide himself from the cameras. He brought his attention back to the present; the other Rogues were conversing, speaking about things Peter had no time to be focusing on in the current moment. He had one goal: get rid of the collar. It was going to hurt a _lot_. But removing the possibility of being shocked was necessary.

He fiddled with the latch at the back, its surface almost completely smooth and flat. But there would have to be some sort of mechanism to remove its metal expanse from his neck. Ross and his lackeys couldn’t be fully inhumane, could they?

Peter hoped the answer was a resounding no.

His hands gingerly hit the opening, even though it was almost non-existent. He latched one of his fingers under the gap, hoping and praying to every possible existing deity that he could do this. Preferably without any pain or suffering-

Or the guards noticing.

Peter jiggled his finger around, using whatever strength he had left to force it open. He was lucky, forever grateful, for his super strength, even if it was failing him more and more as the noxious fumes continued pouring into his body. And- _there._ He pulled the latch open.

Shocks jolted through Peter’s body like a raging river of electricity. His veins were bulging, blood pumping and he realised he never wanted to feel this sort of pain ever again. _Fuck._ The shocks weren’t stopping or unending and instead just kept going on and on and on.

Until it did. Until the electricity stopped flooding his body, and he stopped twitching, and the pain began easing. It wasn’t an easy- nor a quick- process.

But he had done it. The collar couldn’t shock him anymore.

And now it was just time to wait until the perfect time. Clint raised an eyebrow quizzically at the prone Peter, but the latter just shrugged it off.

The lunchtime guard walked through the secure door and into the ring of cells. Peter took a breath. It had to be now.

He rolled off the bed, holding the now free collar around his neck. He curled himself on the floor before the bars and the entrance to his own certified prison, his body ready to spring when needed. Though he was as weak as he could ever remember since getting the bite, and though his lungs and blood and thoughts were pumped full of ethyl chlorine, he’d never felt more ready for anything. There was too much riding on this for him to screw up and get it wrong.

Peter realised he would have to be quick, as quick as ever, to knock out the guard, get out of his cell and escape through the door and to the outside. If he didn’t- _well_ , he really didn’t want to think about the alternative.

The guard stopped outside Peter’s cell, tray in hand, unaware of the events that were about to transpire. She unlocked the door with the keys hanging on her waist. Peter sprang forward.

He knocked the guard to the ground, shoving a hand over her mouth and an arm over her neck. Her eyes were on fire, burning and watching his every movement. The other heroes stood in shock, Clint shaking his head and muttering a steady stream of _no_.

But he couldn’t stop now. Ignoring the Rogues who were slowly finding themselves, Peter raised the collar from his throat and used the heavy metal to knock out the guard. He felt bad, he really, truly did, but he didn’t have time to think of that.

He didn’t have much time at all.

He had to go.

With a lunge, he sprinted forward, body shaking from weakness and the surge of shocks he’d just experienced. He couldn’t believe he’d even managed to knock out the guard. This was really happening.

The door from the ring of cells led to a quiet hallway made of more and more metal, with random doorways embedding the surface of the walls. Peter vaguely remembered where he had come in when they first brought him here, and he tried to follow that route. He looked around the hallway and there: it was the doorway on the far left that spelt freedom. He hoped. He prayed.

His memory couldn’t fail him now.

His feet were near silent on the floors and he’d never thought he’d be so grateful to not be wearing shoes. Sounds began picking up, quiet whispering and toneless yelling. Then there was the banging of doors and the alarms began blaring, and Peter knew he’d have to hurry up if he wanted any more chance of escape.

He made it to the far left door, hoping to all above that the door was unlocked as he flung it open. Thank Thor and all his fellow Norse deities.

A tang of salty air hit Peter, followed by the sound of crashing, booming waves. He was in the hangar, at the opposite end of the helipad where the jet had arrived when they’d first brought him here. When they’d first trapped him within this metal death trap.

The door at the other end near the helipad, that wailed of freedom and hope and _escape_ , was slightly opened. Which meant either someone had just left, or even worse: someone was arriving. He had to go now.

Peter began shuffling, trying to stay out of the line of the cameras, even if it was futile.

“Please,” he whispered, voice soft and breaking. “Please let me get out of here.”

He knew realistically that he’d never make it into one of the jets; he didn’t know how to fly one and so that left the only other possible option as him having to brace the churning water. Even if he’d die of hypothermia as soon as he hit its watery expanse. But it seemed better than the alternative.

Guards began flooding the doorway, tasers and guns in hand. That made the decision for him: the harrowing ocean it was.

Peter ran, his body tired and weak and just wanting to lay down to rest.

“Stop!” A nasally voice yelled. Peter ignored it.

He continued running, practically limping, limbs aching, towards the open doors. He tripped over a gap in the floor, falling down, but he just kept going, using his arms to pull him forward.

So close.

The sea was a monster, alive and roaring, licking its watery lips against the side of the prison. He tried to crawl through the pain, the battering _escape escape escape_ screaming through his head. Those thoughts drowned out everything and anything; any and all semblance of sanity. He felt deft hands pull on his left ankle, yanking and twisting and not at all caring about if they hurt him.

Peter reached for the open-air one last time, sea salt spraying on his face. His fingers kept going and going and-

Stopped. An inch from the edge.

An inch from hope.

An inch from something better.

This time he didn’t try to stop the guards as they lifted him from the ground, instead going limp in their arms. His pride lashed its tail like a mighty beast. And all he could see was that image of his fingers reaching towards a dawn that would never come.

No longer did he care.

No longer.

***

They took Peter to the labs. Back to that horrific world of white and danger.

Strong hands pushed him down into one of the chairs, pulling the restraints and locking him in. Deep, resounding footsteps clunked into the room, and Peter’s head shot up like a deer caught in headlights. Ross, though a disapproving look graced his face, gave off such an air of smugness that it almost sent Peter crazy.

“Peter, Peter, Peter,” Ross sighed as if he was condoning a child for drawing marker all over the walls. “What have you done?”

He couldn’t speak if he wanted to. No words existed in this living damnation, this mortal plane of hell.

Ross slapped him across the face. The sound reverberated through Peter’s skull, sending shockwaves through his body.

“I asked you a question, Peter.”

He tried replying, anything at all. “I-“

“That’s right,” Ross said, “You’ve done nothing but condemn your useless, worthless excuse for an existence into staying in solitary. Two weeks in that hell and you won’t know what’s hit you.”

 _No_.

Peter wasn’t a normal human. His senses would go haywire- solitary was nothing but a living nightmare. He began to shake, his body thrashing in its restraints. Wanda, the strong spirited Scarlet Witch, had returned from solitary a living ghost. And she was so much more of _everything_ than him- how would he cope? _How would he cope?_

He wouldn’t.

That thought wracked its way through Peter’s very existence. He’d be going into isolation as Spider-man, a hero of Queens, and emerging as nothing more than Peter Parker, a scared boy. _Fuck fuck fuck._

The same doctor that always saw him walked forward, a new shock collar held almost reverently within her hands.

“This one won’t be so easy to get off this time,” Ross continued. “Any more trouble after this _incident_ I’ll personally deliver the shocks to your body. That is before I go visit your lovely, darling Aunt.”

He’d said the word incident as if it burned him, as if he felt personally offended by the attempt to escape. Even that thought couldn’t warm Peter, especially considering the danger he’d put May in.

How could he have been so idiotic?

 _Stupid stupid stupid_.

The cold burn of metal startled him out of his thoughts. The doctor was at his side, her delicate fingers clasping the collar around his neck. Peter felt like crying. He’d come so close. So, so close.

A soft _hiss_ made him aware of the collar being fully locked around his skin. He hated it. He hated the doctor. He hated Ross. And most of all, he hated himself for failing.

Ross turned around, facing the door.

“Let’s go, Parker. No more funny business.”

A number of guards stormed into the room, unclasping Peter and practically dragging him from the chair he’d previously been restrained in. His body felt heavy, hollow. As he was hauled out of the room, he kept his head down low, shame written on his face and his thoughts in a flutter.

They walked him down a hallway, and through many doors.

It wasn’t that he’d really believed in him making it out of the Raft alive. That he hadn’t snapped because he thought he could escape. He had hoped that maybe, just maybe, they would kill him. A death by his own choosing, rather than a slow, painful one stuck inside this hunk of metal.

And then they stopped outside a door that seemed to scream _danger_.

Peter looked up for the first time since he’d been pulled from the chair, and he gulped.

“Enjoy, freak,” one of the guards said. Peter didn’t know which one. He didn’t care as he looked at what awaited his near, immediate future. They shoved him inside. The door locked behind him.

The first thing he noticed was the shadows pressing down on him every which way, then the cold of the floors and the tiny expanse of the room he was in. Solitary was everything and nothing all at once. He was floating and grounded, pulling his way through the thick, inky darkness. And that pervasive smell of ethyl chloride was strong here, too.

Be that as it may, he had to give them credit. They were taking no precautions.

Peter heaved out a sigh; his plan had failed, completely and fundamentally. Now he was here, in solitary, in insolation.

Trapped.


	6. sloth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so sorry for the wait time on this chapter! i lost all motivation for writing this when i accidentally deleted over one thousand words of it oops :(  
> anyways come chat with me on tumblr @incipientdream and @icarusdusk, and twitter @ficklestars !!!
> 
> ps. just a warning for some. slight torture in this chapter

_Sloth: "disinclination to action or labour, indolence. Spiritual apathy and inactivity."_

* * *

The sky was on fire.

He lay on his back in the ocean, drifting through endless, salty water, waiting. Watching. He remembered nothing, but also everything, and it felt like the same thing. His thoughts were shifting, nebulous and amorphous. Utterly ill-defined.

There was something so mind-numbingly interminable about the blank space. He always started and ended exactly where he began: nowhere. Everywhere.

How long had passed? Minutes? Days?

He’d stopped counting the number of meals, the time he spent sleeping and awake. No longer cared to know. Had no energy left to give a flying _fuck_.

***

He was cold and he was burning.

His body was an invisible flame, day and night, night and day.

He couldn’t hear anything other than what his body and mind imagined. The cawing of ravens, autumn trees whistling, a broken city screaming.

A hollowed whisper that he realised was his own plea for help.

He felt the calming sense that maybe he had died. Maybe he was no longer stuck in a prison built to hold heroes and villains alike but was instead in the passionate throes of death. But if this was death it was really lonely.

He didn’t know what he preferred.

***

He woke up screaming.

There was blood coating his fingers, soaking his clothes, staining his soul. Or had he imagined it? He didn’t know anymore.

He didn’t know anything except for the pain flooding his body and drowning his thoughts.

There had to be an end to this, didn’t there? The universe couldn’t be so cruel as to submit any individual to endless, infinite torment.

It wasn’t fair.

But then again life wasn’t fair.

***

There was no hope in here.

Contrary to everything he had learnt about Pandora and her _pithos_ in school, hope wasn’t something that existed despite the bad. It was something that existed _because_ of the bad.

And that made it so fickle, frail.

He didn’t have any more room to believe in hope, to believe that there was an end to the darkness and the insurmountable night.

It left him choked, hollow, struggling to breathe through the torment and the pain.

Was there any worth left in life?

***

Tony lay on his side, blood pumping beneath his skin, filling and shaping the bruises that lined his body, oozing out of the wounds that scraped the surface. He felt nothing and everything and he wondered if there was anything in between.

 _Gone_.

It’s the only thing he could think, the only thing that resounded within the deep recesses of his soul.

_Gonegonegonegonegonegone._

Everything he had known was gone. He’d been left, ditched, torn away from everything and anyone. In a way he had never, ever felt before. To be perfectly honest, it was really fucking lonely.

Tony realised he would have to do something soon if he wanted any chance of survival. Rogers and Barnes disappeared only they knew where and there was no one left to help Tony but himself. It wasn’t a task he was familiar with.

God, he hated himself for his dependency.

“Friday,” he said. Finally. His voice was hollow, creaky, without substance. Without feeling. “Call a suit.”

There was a crackled pause before she replied, “It’s on its way, Boss.”

And all Tony could do was wait. Wait until the suit arrived, until his heart stopped splintering into tiny, little pieces. Would there ever be an end to this pain? 

Tony didn’t think he wanted to know the answer.

A gust of wind blew across him. He noticed for the first time how cold Siberia actually was. The frigid air buzzed and churned, stealing all the oxygen from his lungs. It blew across his skin, drawing goosebumps to the surface. Here was to hoping that the other Iron Man suit arrived before the hypothermia did.

Time had no presence amidst the snow and pain. Tony wasn’t sure how long he lay there, if it was seconds or minutes or hours. It felt like a lifetime.

A humming filled the air, followed by the crimson and golden colours of the other suit. Relief flooded through Tony at its familiarity.

He tore off the shattered parts of his suit, blood welling under his fingernails from the amount of force he was using. With all energy gone, he threw the broken pieces to the ground below. The other suit, the new suit, that had no evidence of the battle that had just occurred in these snow plains, covered Tony from head to toe.

He picked up Rogers’ shield, the vibranium light and oddly weighted, placing it under his armpit. The engines of the Iron Man suit powered up. And Tony flew off, into the night, leaving behind the broken suit and a broken friendship.

***

He’d begun thinking about the colours of the world. Light, dark, endlessly beautiful shades of everything. He’d grown tired of the colour black. It was all he knew; all he could remember.

He was tired of remembering.

A door opened.

Peter, in his mindless drivel, thought the noise had come from inside his head. Lights flooded the area, and he thought maybe he had imagined that, too. But the sound of footsteps crept and stalked and thundered towards him, followed by a daunting figure that still looked like Colonel Sanders. Ross.

Everything had visited Peter in his trapped thoughts; his parents, Tony, Ben, May, his friends. Everything except Ross.

And that was how he knew it was no longer a tormented dream.

“Well, look here,” Ross said. The sound of his voice was like someone scratching fingernails across a chalkboard. “You miraculously survived. Did you have fun?”

Peter neglected to respond. He didn’t know if he could speak anymore, if words were possible after the actuality of being stuck within solitary confinement. Rough fingers clenched his jaw, but he barely registered them.

He didn’t register much at all.

“Apparently solitary did its job too well. No matter. I like you better this way.”

Peter recognised the words that were kept unsaid, _freak freak freak. Let’s tame the monster_.

One of the guards hauled Peter to his feet, locking handcuffs around his delicate, slowly thinning wrists. He tried to walk, but instead tripped and fell down to the hard, metal ground below. Everything was metal in here. He wished he had the same sense of stability, the same durability, that metal did. But he was better suited to whatever was the complete opposite. Whatever represented frailty and pure, unadulterated weakness.

With a sigh, the guards forced Peter out of the room, his legs like jelly and barely able to take a few steps. It hurt, his limbs and muscles aching, his feet cautious on the ground. He didn’t want to fall over again.

Someone pressed the button on the controls and electricity ran its course once more through Peter’s body. And despite his wishes, and despite the tiny bit of pride that still rested within his veins, he fell to the ground again. His body hit that blasted metal flooring with a _bang_ , his limbs shuddering from pain.

A sharp hand yanked him up from his prone position and shoved him until he was able to take a few steps. He kept going, out of solitary and into the world beyond. But then the second the full brightness of the artificial lights hit Peter, he flinched, wincing, closing his eyes. The sound of buzzing wires, tapping footsteps, nasal breathing, tickled his ears.

He was aware of everything.

A push from behind had him continuing on.

Everything _hurt_. His senses were in overdrive, noticing everything, and his feeble body was completely flooded with throbbing agony. His shackled hands tore at his face as he tried to shove away all the discomfort.

“Keep it moving, Parker.”

Even the sound of Ross’ voice grated on his ears.

The entire journey to the white lab of horrors sent shivers down Peter’s spine. He didn’t want to go back to the place that scared the absolute shit out of him.

On the way, they passed the door that led to the prison cells where the others were, and Peter wondered if they were all okay. He also hoped that his reckless actions hadn’t lent to their own punishments. He didn’t think he could ever forgive himself if they were hurt because of him.

A forced grunt had him speeding up his walk.

Peter couldn’t stop his hands from shaking as they continued their trek, his attempts to bunch them up within his dirtied shirt doing nothing to help. He couldn’t pinpoint whether it was from the cold or the fear of what was to come. A stark thought made him realise it was probably both.

One of the guards put a hand on Peter’s shoulder, stopping his movements. He hadn’t even realised that they had made it to the lab, and that was somehow even scarier. _Jeez_ , he was such an idiot. He couldn’t believe the mess he’d gotten himself into by trying to escape, and there was no one, or nothing, to stop Ross and his soldiers from doing whatever they liked to Peter without consequence.

The door opened. Peter took a deep breath and followed Ross within.

He trudged over to the chair without avail, spirit broken and filled with the need _to hurry up and get this over with_. The same doctor as always came over and pulled the restraints tight over his body, a highly critical look lining every inch of her face.

Peter really had no strength left to care about what she thought.

“Peter, Peter,” Ross muttered, shaking his head. “I would like to think you’ve learnt your lesson, but we can never be too sure with your types.”

Fear flashed through Peter, and he gulped deeply, heavily at Ross’ words. He had believed solitary would be the end of it. That there would be no other punishment than that endless hell, the infinite darkness that still pervaded every one of his senses. _Oh, god._

“Why do it, Parker? To make a statement?”

Peter struggled to find his voice. “I-”

“That’s right,” Ross interrupted. He paused in front of Peter, hands on either side of the chair. “There’s no reason other than your own stupidity. You broke the law, and there’s no escape from the Raft. Obviously, you have been spending too much time with Stark and that big, egotistical head of his.”

“Mister Stark did nothing wrong,” Peter blurted. At this point, he didn’t even know why he was defending Tony. His lies, the omission of truth, had been the reason why Peter was thrown into this desolate prison of metal and darkness in the first place. And Mister Stark had just left him here to rot. Peter’s last hope had abandoned him.

Like everyone always abandoned him.

“Your naivety continues to astound me.”

With a sigh, Ross turned around and pierced Peter with his perilous stare. The younger boy inched back in his chair as far as he could, eyes flashing. They could do whatever they wanted to him _and no one would know_. He felt like throwing up.

Ross continued, “We had a talk about what we were going to do with you, Peter. Because we can’t just let you think this behaviour is in any way acceptable.” He ran a finger across the tools on the workbench, his hands resting almost reverently atop one of the mallets. _No no no_ _no no_. _Please no_. “Somebody suggested we break your legs. Shatter the bone to tiny pieces.”

Peter’s head whipped up. _Holy fuck it was worse than he could have thought_. They were going to ruin his legs, trap him on the ground, unable to walk or run or even fight as Spider-man ever, ever again. The sad thing is that he knew that they would do it without hesitation if they really wanted to. They would take away the use of his legs and not lose a second of sleep over it. He couldn’t breathe.

Peter finally found his voice, that anger and a deep-seated fear burning within him. “Don’t- please- I’m _begging_ -”

Ross just raised an eyebrow.

“Please. _Please_. I’ll do anything- _please_.”

He couldn’t stop pleading if he tried.

“Parker-”

His voice grew softer by the second. “Please-”

Pain shot through him, infinite and endless. They were shocking him- _again_. It hurt more than ever before, as if they had increased the voltage, boosted the electricity, just to keep him weak, compliant. The words died on his lips, a faint charged tingling taking over from his endless begging. His body was shaking. His breathing near non-existent. He couldn’t feel anything.

And he nearly cried from relief when it ended. Even if his veins still felt on fire.

“ _Enough_ of that, you idiotic child,” Ross said. “I decided, quite graciously, to instead give you a demonstration of what it would have been like had you actually made it out of the prison and into the ocean beyond. Do you realise it’s cold enough to give you hypothermia? Not that you would have cared.” Ross shook his head once more. He stalked closer to Peter, his voice soft, almost whispering in the boy’s face. “But I want you to know that I plan on keeping you alive for a long, long time, Peter. You’re an abomination of mankind and deserve nothing less than to be in here for the rest of your life.”

Ross stood back, pulled down his suit jacket, and snapped his fingers. Peter could hardly breathe. He felt trapped and claustrophobic in a way he had never, ever felt before, where every fibre of his being screamed to be let out, let go. He was grateful that they weren’t going to completely shatter his legs, but fear continued to curdle as he thought about what it was that they were actually going to do with him.

The door to the laboratory opened with a bang. Peter flinched once more.

A pair of guards walked through the doors; a giant bucket of water held between the two of them. They placed it down near the base of the chair he was strapped to.

 _Oh, no_.

“I wouldn’t resist this if I were you,” Ross said. He took a few steps back, leaning against one of the tables. “Otherwise I may reconsider breaking your legs.”

Peter’s heart skipped a beat. Another two guards walked over and unhooked the restraints latching him to the chair, before pulling him out of it by his handcuffs. He fell to his knees, the floor biting his skin. Someone, he didn’t know who but assumed was the guards, shoved his head forward into the bucket of water.

This time, every bit of air within his lungs left his system.

The hand holding his hair pushed him in even further and the cold started settling within him. He felt as though he was drowning and burning all at once, suffocating a slow, watery death. His breath continued dissipating and he was choking and-

And they yanked him back up with a tight grip on his hair.

Peter’s body ached. He tried pulling air into his lungs, but it was difficult, and he couldn’t breathe, and it felt as though he was dying. Or maybe he was already dead. Could hell match so closely with his life back on Earth? It was better than the alternative- that he was well and truly on the Raft and being- for lack of a better word- _tortured_ by US government officials.

But just as he managed to take a big gulp in, chest burning, they pushed him back under. It was so _cold_ and he couldn’t _breathe_ and he just felt like _crying_. Why couldn’t he have just jumped ship when he had the chance to escape? At least he’d be dead and not stuck in this fucking hellhole.

They pulled him back up just as the spots began dancing beneath his eyelids.

His entire being felt as though it was on fire, air circulating sporadically throughout his body. Tears built up within the corners of his eyes; everything hurt so, so bad.

He felt hands jerk him backwards until he was resting upright on his knees. Whoever it was- the guards, Ross, the devil themself- walked around in front of him, and he only noticed because of the faint tremor from the few spider senses that still existed. He couldn’t open his eyes.

And then he was dying once more.

But instead of shoving his head forward, they had poured the entire bucket over his body. Every. Last. Drop. He was absolutely freezing, water in every inch, every crevice of his body. He could hardly breathe from the cold. But then it got even worse when shockwaves shot through his veins. Water must have gotten inside the mechanism of the collar, or they pressed the button, the latter of which seemed more likely, he didn’t know- _but it didn’t matter either way_. All he knew was the freezing cold and the searing lightning that coursed throughout every part of him.

Ross’ voice somehow made its way through the pain.

“We’re cutting your rations, as well,” he said. “Don’t think about doing anything like this _ever_ again, Peter, or you’ll find out exactly what we do to trouble-making criminals in here. Maybe I’ll even get in contact with that Aunt of yours.”

Peter hadn’t even considered- stupidly hadn’t even _thought_ \- about the impact this would have on Aunt May. Ross had warned Peter of the consequences his actions would have, and he _hadn’t listened_. _Jeez_ , he was a giant, colossal fuck up.

 _May May May_. It was the only coherent thought within his addled brain.

He hoped she was okay.

He hoped he would be okay.

Warm hands brought him to his feet, and Peter managed to shake the water from his eyes. He was cold and possibly dying but at least he could now see. They began marching him out of the laboratory.

“I do truly hope your super-powered healing kicks in, Peter,” Ross said, facing away from the door, head down as if in thought. “We wouldn’t want you to catch a cold.”

Peter struggled in the guard’s arms. The audacity, the pure _smugness_ , that emanated from Ross absolutely infuriated him. He knew almost nothing but the pain and the aching fury that crawled throughout his body like a raging inferno, an earthquake ready to burst forth at the slightest quiver.

The door slammed shut behind them.

A trail of water followed Peter and his guards down the hallway, but he didn’t care. He didn’t really care about anything. He just wanted everything to be _over_. Even if that meant death itself taking him in its warm embrace. That sounded preferable at this very moment.

The lights in the cell ring were near blinding. He’d forgotten how bright they were.

Peter didn’t know what to think as he walked back into the area. Each of the ex-Avengers were on the edge of their beds, staring forward at _him_. But he didn’t have much time to assess before the guards shoved him back into his own cell. With a sigh, he shuffled over to the back corner of his space, pulling the blanket from his bed and wrapping it tightly around himself. He needed to feel warm, to stop his teeth from chattering and his body from feeling as though it was about to combust.

A shuddering metallic sound echoed throughout the cells. Peter looked up, noticing that Clint had leapt over the side of his bed. His voice was full of anger, its low tenor speaking volumes. “What did they do to you?”

“I-” Peter’s voice broke. He shook his head softly, every part of him aching and sopping wet. “It doesn’t matter.”

His heart felt heavy.

“We’ll get them back for you,” Wanda said. Her eyes were downturned, so old for someone so young. Peter had the feeling that was how he looked at the moment. “They’ll pay for what they have done to us.”

It went quiet.

A buzzing seemed to pervade everything, as if it was a tension created by every bit of anger and sadness and negative emotion.

“Don’t worry, they didn’t hurt us,” Sam said. It was as if the hero had known _exactly_ the thoughts that were buzzing around through Peter’s head. A breath fell from his mouth that he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding in.

Scott shot him a quizzical look. “Why do it?”

Peter turned his eyes down once more. He didn’t think he could answer without tears forming and dripping _down down down_ his cheeks. He had never felt like such a young, _dumbass_ child as he did at that moment.

“That was stupid,” Sam said.

Peter just nodded his head. There was nothing else to say. He had been stupid in believing he had enough of _everything_ to escape, and in the end, it had all just been in vain. He was still stuck here, in the Raft, hidden away from the world and life itself. Most likely for the rest of his existence on this godforsaken Earth.

He had so many regrets.

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re still alive.”

With a pained look, Peter just turned to face the wall behind him. The tears finally began slipping down his cheeks, their trail near silent. Nothing was worth anything anymore.

And that seemed to be the worst thing of all.


End file.
